


Battle of Attrition

by Riffir



Series: Polyphasic [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anger, Arguing, M/M, Sleep Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-13
Updated: 2012-04-13
Packaged: 2017-11-03 14:48:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/382507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riffir/pseuds/Riffir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of the things that Sherlock so obviously doesn’t understand (other than social skills, the solar system, proper traffic-crossing laws and personal boundaries) was that people (breathing, dull, normal people) actually didn’t run on only two hours of sleep a day.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Battle of Attrition

**Author's Note:**

> Am not Uberman Polyphasic, not is my partner.

One of the things that Sherlock so obviously doesn’t understand (other than social skills, the solar system, proper traffic-crossing laws and personal boundaries) was that people (breathing, dull, normal people) actually didn’t run on only two hours of sleep a day. If John dozes off on the couch, he’s often woken by an insistent Sherlock demanding his opinion of some experiment or, once, to view a particularly horrible infomercial. When John turns off the telly and begins to head upstairs to go to bed, Sherlock’s there to distract him. And if John tries to sneak off without saying goodnight, then Sherlock will perch on his bed and attempt to initiate conversations about anything he can think of (which, as vast as Sherlock’s mind is, is obviously quite a lot). It’s not entirely fair: Sherlock can go for days without speaking, and still manage to radiate displeasure when John decides it’s time for sleep. 

Irony abounds.

Sometimes sex is a part of the solution (which John doesn’t usually mind, but he’s on the downward slide of forty and really, sleep is a necessity). He can either accept Sherlock’s proposal and hope that he stays awake for the whole time (so far, no problems, but he isn’t looking forward to the reaction he’ll get the first time he fails), or he can turn Sherlock down and hope that the downstairs survives the subsequent rejection. Last time John had had to fix three windows and the oven door, and pay Mrs. Hudson extra for the giant hole in the wall. 

Sherlock’s also intolerant of locum work. Sure, when John had first taken the job, he’d been more than supportive (read: unimpressed) with the whole idea. He’s fine with John’s work when he himself has no case. He’s not fine with John’s work if he himself actually has one of his cases to solve.

It’s no wonder Sherlock was unaware that the Earth revolved around the sun, as he clearly imagines that everything revolves around himself. Or possibly it revolves around casework. 

So, naturally, flu season hits around the same time a major art thief appears in London. What’s more, the thief leaves clues in the Daily Times to taunt the police with, all written in yet another numbered sequence that no one had been able to break yet. 

It wasn’t Christmas come early, but Sherlock’s joy was comparable to discovering that you had a three-day-weekend coming up and absolutely no family obligations to spoil it with. 

Unfortunately, John’s practically living at the office. The waiting room is filled to the brim with the sick and infirm, all of whom, it seems, were destined to pass through John’s care. There is coughing children, sneezing elderly, and, randomly, a very large man with a severely sprained ankle. And on top of it all, Sherlock still expects assistance with his work. He texts John throughout the day, glares at him when he leaves, and tries to impress the magnitude of his work upon John’s obviously thick skull. In return, John tries to impress the magnitude of bills and food upon Sherlock’s.

They reach an impasse rather quickly. 

~~

Things come to a head two weeks into the case. John stumbles up the stairs, leaning on the railing far more than was healthy for the screws in the wall. “Please tell me there’s something edible and non-poisonous in, Sherlock, I’m famished,” he calls out before he’s even cleared the top stair. 

Once again, the case features codes that are solvable only through books. Unfortunately, this cipher has been written according to one of the several editions of the Encyclopedia Britannica, and Sherlock has yet to stumble across the correct revision. Last night had been a rerun of the Blind Banker incident: John had actually nodded off several times early in the morning, only to be woken up by muttered curses and a stomping, pacing detective. He’d given in and grabbed a short nap in the end, though it hadn’t been much help at the office. Luckily, he hadn’t dozed off this time; John didn’t think his job would survive on-the-clock naps without the aid of non-progressive office romance.

Sherlock makes a disinterested sound the in the back of his throat, flipping through a pile of books in front of him. “Did you pick up the bioprosthetic valve?”

John pauses at the door, and frowns down at Sherlock. When he had left, the sitting room had been filled with stacks of books, all neatly ordered by alphabet and edition. Now it looks like a tornado has blown through the room, depositing books carelessly over everything, with a barely dressed consulting detective at it’s eye. “Biopro-- When did you ask me to get that?”

Sherlock looks up, irritation creasing his face. “Two hours ago, John. Pay attention.”

John sighs, and ducks into the kitchen. “I left for work about eight hours ago, Sherlock. Remember that conversation about actually paying attention to when I’m in the room? Because you’ve failed it.”

Sherlock gives that same disinterested noise, and John winces at the sound of a book being flung at the wall. From the accompanying snap, the binding has broken, and John will probably be sweeping up scattered pages. He can only hope it’s not one of the earlier editions of the Encyclopedia Britannica; the library hadn’t been happy to lend those out as it, and he has a feeling they’ll do more than issue a late fine if their prized antique books come back in shambles. 

There’s a frozen casserole in the freezer, which John pulls out. He checks the oven, is happy to find it both empty and working, and proceeds to make dinner. Sherlock is ranting about copyrights and strange typefaces, which means (John hopes) that as this case doesn’t take a whole great deal of mental energy, Sherlock might deign to eat with him. 

John makes a cup of tea, downs a biscuit, then takes a deep breath and braves the chaos of the living room. Sherlock’s standing in the middle of the room, head clutched tightly in both hands. The ‘V’ edition lies at his feet, and he looks about ready to commit murder. John sets his tea down on an almost stable looking stack of books and reaches for him. “Easy,” he murmurs, pulling Sherlock’s hand from his head and replacing them with his own. He curls Sherlock’s hair about his fingers, and scratches gently at his scalp. “Just sit a moment; have you actually done anything other than this all day?”

Sherlock gives a quick shrug, and leans into his touch. “Of course. I slept.”

John rolls his eyes. He knows better than to assume that ‘slept’ has the same denotations that everyone else’s definition of the word did. “No wonder you’re getting headaches, then.” He keeps his voice gentle. There’s a little spark of irritation gnawing at the base of his skull: he’s spent the whole day being kind, gentle, and considerate to sick and pained people: sometimes he wishes he could simply come home and not have to do it all over again. Because if he has to name one constant client, it would undoubtedly be Sherlock, with his habits of pissing off the general public to the point of mayhem, his experiments where ‘surprise reaction’ is something actually sought after, and his own, single-minded determination that leaves him with tension headaches and stiff shoulders. 

But John is still John, and he keeps massaging at Sherlock’s scalp until the tension’s started to recede from his shoulders. “I have food in the oven: why not give this a break, and come back to it?” he suggests. “We can take a few hours, put on something mind-numbing, then come at it fresh.” He actually thinks Sherlock’s going to agree until the consulting detective tenses under his grasp, then steps back, eyes wide and pupils blown.

“Of course, how could I-- the dust prints in the---” and Sherlock’s opened the ‘K’ book from 1827. John shakes his head, gives a longing look at the visible twelve inches of television screen he can see, then retreats back to the kitchen before Sherlock can send him out after the bioprosthetic valve. 

Later that night, John’s helping Sherlock find the last few words for the cipher when he dozes off in his chair. The first time, Sherlock has to call several times before he’ll wake up. The second time Sherlock skips the yelling and simply tosses the Union Jack pillow. The third time John is blasted from that comfortable, floating space by electronic feedback.

John jerks upright and nearly falls off the couch. Sherlock turns off the speaker and removes the headphones from where it was flattening down his unruly hair. “If you’re not going to take the nicotine patch, then at least drink another cup of tea.” His gaze narrows in on John, who slumps back against the armrest. “Long day, lots of patients… the tube…” he’s silent a moment, then shakes his head. “Nothing that out of the ordinary.” He picks up another book and hands it to John. It feels like it weighs fifty pounds, and John let it fall into his lap. “Now hurry up and be useful again: I want to have this copied out by tomorrow in case the thief puts another notice in the paper.”

John rubs at his eyes, and thinks longingly of his bed upstairs. “I’m probably not going to be much use, Sherlock,” he resolutely ignores the muttered “when are you?” in response. “I need sleep.”

“Oh please,” Sherlock closes his book with a snap. “This is much more exciting than sleep.”

“No. Sherlock just-- this is the antithesis of exciting. This is actually boring.” Sleep was exciting. It was fun and wonderful and at the moment it sounds like the best thing in the world.

“Dull.” Sherlock turns away and grabs up another book. “It’s page 342, four lines down--”

“Are you even listening?” John knows that he has two possible paths. He can either go back to helping Sherlock and hope to not fall asleep on the sofa, or he can simply stand up and walk up to his bedroom. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s gone to bed like that. It wouldn’t be the last. But John’s tired and furious and completely aware that he’s being perhaps just a bit sensitive. “Do you ever actually listen?”

“Don’t be melodramatic, John.” Sherlock doesn’t even glance up from the page. 

“I’m not. Melodramatic is refusing to eat or talk because you’re bored. Melodramatic is withholding information so that you can spring it all out at once. Melodramatic is walking around in a coat for the primary reason of swirling it around!” Perhaps more than a bit sensitive.

The row escalates from there. Sherlock sneers that of course John can’t understand these things, and John responds with insinuations about why Sherlock only has one friend. They go in circles, stomping about the room, pointing and glaring until John hurls a book that comes perilously close to smashing the mirror above the mantle. 

Taking that as his cue, John heads for the stairs, snapping back over his shoulder, “Humans-- actual breathing humans-- need sleep, Sherlock. Not all of us run on clues and nicotine patches like you.”

He can just make out the beginning of Sherlock’s response: “Last time I checked-- last time you checked, for that matter-- I’m perfectly--” before he slams his bedroom door hard enough to splinter the wood around the screws of the hinges.

~~

The next morning is awkward. Sherlock’s still flipping through pages in the living room, and John keeps to the kitchen as he waits for the kettle to boil. He keeps thinking about that final parting shot, the implied “you’re not human!” He hadn’t actually said it, but it’s still there, ghosting around the fringes of his memory the same way old conversations with dead friends did. Finally, he puts his shoulders back and marches into the living room, two cups of tea in hand.

“Did you complete the code?” John asks, setting the second tea cup down beside Sherlock. The detective has two newspapers in front of him, eyes scanning the print eagerly. John pushes a few editions off his chair and sinks down, not quite looking at the be-robed figure beside him.

Sherlock makes an ambiguous noise and flips another page. After a long pause, he says, “Yes, I have everything I need…now I’m just waiting for the next note.”

John sips his tea. “Good. That’s, good.” He isn’t sure how to bring it up, and gives up a moment later.

They sit in silence, John finishing his tea and Sherlock refusing to come out from under his newspapers, until John slips upstairs to brush his teeth before he heads out. Neither say anything as he walks out the door, though John does notice that the cup beside Sherlock is empty, though he never saw him actually touch it. He smiles on his way down the stairs.  
That evening, John cleans up the sitting room and arranges for the antique books to go back to the libraries they had come from. He boxes up the remaining volumes, and hopes that the used book seller down the street will take at least some of them. The newest edition he puts away on the mantle, figuring that he can use it to distract Sherlock the next time he gets bored by telling him to read about teacup manufacturing, or something like that.

They still aren’t really speaking. But they also aren’t not speaking. When John asks what Sherlock wants for dinner, he responds readily enough, and afterward he drops the television remote in John’s lap without a complaint, but it’s still tense. John leaves it for the time being; until ten rolls around, when Sherlock stretches out on the couch for his nap and puts his head on John’s lap as though it belonged there.

John rests his arm against the back of the sofa and waits until Sherlock wakes back up before he says, “I think we should talk,”

Sherlock closes his eyes again. “I don’t see why.” His face is pointedly relaxed, almost blank, but John can tell from the stillness in his shoulders that he’s unhappy with the idea.

John sighs. “Perhaps because we both said hurtful things, and this is one of the things people do when they fight. They talk about it.”

Sherlock lifts the shoulder he isn’t lying on in a shrug. “We never have before.” It’s mostly true. Usually, they would just vacate from each other’s company for a while, and wait for it to blow over. Or Sherlock would show up in John’s bed with a sexy version of an apology. “It’s not like we said anything that wasn’t true,” he adds a moment later.

John can’t even remember everything he had said, but he’s positive that he said plenty that wasn’t true. Still, Sherlock makes no move to get up; in fact, he seems heavier than ever, head pressing down on John’s thigh like he’s trying to imprint it onto his brain. 

He would try that. John drops his hand from the back of the couch onto Sherlock’s head, twining black curls around his stubby fingers. And instantly, Sherlock relaxes into the touch. “I didn’t mean anything by it,” John says softly. “I was just angry, and trying to be hurtful.”

Sherlock lies still a moment longer, then kneels up. In a flash, he’s straddling John’s lap, lips pressed tightly against John’s mouth. John sighs a bit, feeling his own tension relax from him and he closes his eyes. 

It’s not as smooth as usual: neither wants to get up, not even long enough to find a bottle of lubricant or even a more comfortable position, and so John settles for the swift unbuttoning of trousers. He pulls Sherlock flush to him, skin against skin, and grasps them both in his hand, as Sherlock’s hands scrabble over his body, occasionally reaching between them to caress John’s balls or the head of his cock. All the while he’s breathing against John’s ears, or neck, an finally pressing their lips together, a penance of lips, teeth and tongue. 

Afterward-- after John has arched up against that beautiful, long body, after Sherlock is brought shuddering to a climax with his face buried in the niche of John’s neck-- they stretch out against the sofa together. John can feel the edge of sleep rattling against his brain, and Sherlock’s found a documentary on bees on the telly, which he continually mutters corrections to. 

Finally, John wakes up just enough to run his hand down Sherlock’s back and mutter about taking a nap. Just a quick one.

Sherlock, his eyes never leaving the screen, snuggles closer onto John’s shoulder. “Sleep as long as you want.” It’s the closest to an apology as he’ll ever get, and the last sensation John remembers as he closes his eyes is the edges of his lips stretching upward.

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by "Battle in Me" by Garbage.


End file.
